In Memoriam

Wm. McKinley, Died Sept 14 th, 1901.

The morn has dawned upon the night of sorrow,
     For which we prayed a little while ago,
And he has entered on his bright tomorrow
Triumphant over death and pain and woe.

“Nearer, My God, to Thee,” in anguish
     He prayed, in agony of mortal pain,
“Thy will be done, although the flesh may languish,”
     He murmured softly, like a sweet refrain.

He was a hero. For his country’s glory
     He risked his manhood in its youthful prime.
The darkest blot upon that country’s story
Is the assassin’s dastardly, fell crime.

In perfect safety, through the fiercest battle,
     McKinley rode, while bullets fell like rain,
And brought dispatches, ’mid the canon’s rattle,
     To his commander, o’er beleaguered plain.

And yet, strange fate! At zenith of his power,
     On the great day named for him at the feast,
He fell, a martyr, in the festive bower,
     The Nation’s ruler and the people’s guest.

Oh, Watchman, tell us from thy clearer vision
     What of the night? Its gloom is o’er us still.
Speak us some comfort from the land Elysian
     As will resign us to God’s sovereign will.

Must anarchy strike virtue down, in terror,
     In land redeemed by patriotic blood?
How can we purify our land from error
     And make it strong in Christian brotherhood?